


Harry Hart and the Honey Pot: An Indiana Jones Adventure

by reena_jenkins, samanthahirr



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Indiana Jones Fusion, Archaeology, Enemies to Lovers, High Speed Foot Chase, M/M, Mercenaries, Podfic, Podfic Available, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-07 17:38:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15913083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/pseuds/samanthahirr
Summary: In 1956 Mexico, archaeologist Harry Hart has unearthed a priceless Mayan artifact...a treasure that private collectors would kill to possess.Mercenary Eggsy Unwin has been hired to steal the artifact—a job he’s done a dozen times over. But for this prize, he’ll have to go through the famous Dr. Hart.Eggsy’s looking forward to the challenge.





	Harry Hart and the Honey Pot: An Indiana Jones Adventure

**Author's Note:**

> ** warning for 1950's colonialist attitudes

**Coverartist:**  samanthahirr

 **Music:** [Con Mi Sombra](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2olU92gz0To&feature=youtu.be), as performed by S-Tone Inc. feat. Manuela Ravaglioli

 **Length:** 01:20:51

[ **MOBILE STREAMING LINK | 55.8 MB** ](http://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/\(KM\)%20_Harry%20Hart%20and%20the%20Honey%20Pot_%20An%20Indiana%20Jones%20Adventure_.mp3)

[ **DOWNLOAD MP3 (RIGHT-CLICK, SAVE-AS)** ](http://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/\(KM\)%20_Harry%20Hart%20and%20the%20Honey%20Pot_%20An%20Indiana%20Jones%20Adventure_.mp3)

 

Valentine’s description of the target is very detailed: A Mayan mask in the shape of a jaguar, carved from jadeite, recently excavated at a dig 10 kilometers north of the town of Mérida on the Yucatán Peninsula, and scheduled for personal delivery by archaeologist Dr. Harry Hart to the British Museum in two days’ time. Eggsy’s job is to take possession of the artifact by any means necessary and deliver it to Mr. Valentine. In exchange, Eggsy’s fee will be $4,000 American, in cash, half up front and half upon receipt.

The crucial bit of information missing from Mr. Valentine’s proposal is a description of Dr. Hart himself. But that’s alright.

Eggsy already knows exactly what Dr. Hart looks like.

~

Eggsy slips into the hotel bar just past sunset and turns his face up to catch the breeze of the large circulating fans overhead. A dab of his pocket square removes the worst of the sweat from his brow, flushed from sun exposure and the lingering, humid heat of the day. Eggsy positions himself at the bar to take in the room, his gaze passing over guests and waitstaff until he finds his target exactly where the bellhop said—seated at a table in the far corner with a martini glass in hand.

Eggsy’s pulse kicks up, both at finding his quarry and at seeing Dr. Hart again.

It’s been just over three months since Eggsy last saw him. Hart had been giving a presentation at the British Museum on his excavation of the ancient seaport of Ashkelon—the latest of several lectures Eggsy’s watched him deliver. Eggsy never misses the museum's lectures when he’s in town...and he makes it a point to be in town for Hart's lecture series in particular.

Hart sits with his back to the wall, idly watching the tourists. He’s dressed informally, in brown trousers and white shirtsleeves, collar unbuttoned and cuffs rolled up in deference to the heat, the deep tan of his forearms approaching that of the locals. His fine nose and high cheekbones don’t stand out so much with his darkened complexion, but his teeth and eyes flash brighter for it. His brown hair sweeps loosely off his temple in a relaxed wave, not coiffed and pomaded as usual, making him look downright approachable. Eggsy drinks him in, savoring every deviation from the handsome man’s customary attire of bespoke suits and perfectly knotted ties.

Hart’s table is empty save for his cocktail, as though he’s content to people-watch all evening. And if that’s his preference, Eggsy is only too happy to give him one specific person to watch.

Eggsy dabs his neck again, pockets his kerchief, and swans through the crowd of bustling tables, calling, “My word! Professor Hart, is that you?” in his well-practiced, public-school accent.

Hart’s eyes find him instantly, and his posture tenses before a vague look of recognition settles on his face. He rises to takes Eggsy’s extended hand. “How do you do?”

Eggsy shakes enthusiastically, wearing a vacuous grin. “How do you do! I say, it’s quite a treat to run into you like this.”

“It’s certainly been some time,” Hart agrees. “I take it you were one of my students?”

“What— you don’t recognize me? It’s Gary Unwin! From your Principles of Archaeology class at Eton!”

Hart nods, looking gratifyingly flustered before Eggsy releases his grip and lets him off the hook.

“I’m pulling your leg, old man! There’s no chance you could remember me. I was complete rubbish as a student.” He leans closer to confess, “My late-night adventures had me falling asleep in the back of every class. Sorry.”

Hart’s brow smooths as he chuckles along with Eggsy’s self-effacing laugh. “Well, it’s well-met, Mr. Unwin. What brings you to Mérida?”

“Oh, some of the chaps and I are on a world tour. And Digby swears this is _the_ place for catching sunstroke and syphilis. I’ll give him points for the sunstroke at least.” He makes a show of fanning his red face, and Hart obligingly invites Eggsy to sit at his table.

When they’re seated, Eggsy smiles broadly at the man across from him. “Much appreciated! I was nearly dead on my feet from this heat.”

“A wool-blend isn’t the ideal fabric for this sort of climate,” Hart murmurs politely.

Doesn’t Eggsy know it. But his outfit is all about adopting the plumage of the nest he means to infiltrate. And as brutally sweltering as it feels, Hart hasn't batted an eye at Eggsy’s claim to have attended Eton—or his facade of a harmless gentleman of leisure. “I should learn to be a student of the weather, eh professor?” Eggsy laughs.

Hart nods but gives him a peculiar smile. “It’s so odd to hear that title. Here, most everyone calls me Dr. Hart.”

“Oh! Well, I suppose it was four years ago, no sense calling you professor now. Is that what you’d prefer I call you? Dr. Hart?”

Hart considers, taking Eggsy's measure more keenly. His gaze drifts over Eggsy’s tie, just slightly loosened, and the trim cut of his suit at his waist. It feels like a caress, makes Eggsy itch under the heat of his costume. Finally, Hart offers with a small smile, “Harry.”

If Eggsy weren’t already sunburnt, he’d be blushing for sure. Eggsy knows he’s well-built, and he’s been called beautiful by men and women in half the continents of the world. But Hart looking at him like that and offering his given name—an intimacy Eggsy never would have imagined being permitted—sets his pulse racing.

“Eggsy,” he croaks, throat gone dryer than the Bolivian Salt Flats. “My friends call me Eggsy.”

“Eggsy,” Harry echoes, obviously pleased. He lifts his glass to drink, holding Eggsy's gaze.

Eggsy’s plan had been to get Harry drunk and ransack his hotel room while he slept it off—straightforward enough, with a proven history of success. But Eggsy can suddenly see a different way to gain access to Harry’s hotel room tonight. One that will allow him to indulge his long-simmering fascination with Harry.

To that end, Eggsy unbuttons his jacket and sets about removing his tie, letting Harry see where the fine fabric of his shirt has sweat through over his chest. Harry watches with half-lidded eyes.

Brilliant.

As Eggsy tucks his tie into his jacket pocket, a waiter stops at their table and murmurs to Harry in Spanish.

“Would you like something to drink?” Harry translates.

“I may not speak Spanish, but I know enough to get sozzled,” Eggsy parries. He turns to the waiter and says, “ _Dos, por favor_ ,” pointing at Harry’s glass.

Once the waiter leaves, Harry lifts his martini and murmurs against the rim, “Effective.”

“Quite,” Eggsy agrees.

No way Eggsy ever set foot in Eton, or any other public school for that matter. But playing posh has been a boon to his career in extra-legal acquisitions, and he learned early on that pretty vowels and fine suits meant nothing if you had nothing posh to talk about. Eggsy’s spent the past few years exploring every nook and cranny of the British Museum. And it led him to stumble across the lectures of one gentleman archaeologist, Dr. Hart, as he presented on the many digs he’s lead to all parts of the world.

Eggsy's infatuation only deepened his appreciation for the history and beauty of the museum’s collection...and made Eggsy something of an expert in the field of rare artifact retrieval. He has no illusions that Harry would appreciate Eggsy’s career choices.

But Eggsy decides to earn his continued place at Harry’s table by reminiscing about some of the great lectures he’s heard Harry give. It’s simple enough. All he has to say is, “This reminds me of that story you told, about trying to order food in Ancient Greek when you were excavating Philias’s workshop,” and Harry’s eyes light up with excitement.

They’re half-way through their drinks—and the martinis taste like pure gin—well played, Harry—when Eggsy puts his foot in it. It’s an honest mistake, assuming that Harry included all of his digs in his Eton curriculum. But when Eggsy says, “The way you described the catacombs under Lisbon had my skin crawling...” Harry frowns.

“I never spoke about those catacombs at Eton.”

Eggsy mentally slaps himself for letting too much of his personal life bleed into the character he's playing. Outwardly, he only shrugs and explains, “Oh, probably from one of your lectures at the British Museum, then.”

“You’ve seen one of my museum lectures?” Harry asks, confusion fading into pleasure.

“Most of them, actually,” Eggsy can’t help confessing. In for a penny...and if he gets to share one truth about himself with Harry, let it be this—how deeply Harry’s instruction has affected him. “I subscribe to the series. I may have been a dreadful student at school, but you were a fantastic teacher. The stories you told us—you made archaeology sound fascinating and worthwhile. I wanted to hear more.” God it feels good to admit it. But he can’t risk belying his character, so he tempers it with a sly wink. “It was rather a big help that they were evening lectures. If you teach at Eton again, I recommend evening classes. Give us night owls a chance to sleep in.”

Harry looks slightly pink in the cheeks, puffed up by Eggsy’s sincere flattery. “Those were all sanitized versions for polite company, you know,” he confides.

Eggsy’s eyes crinkle with delight. “Really! What sort of goings-on were there that would shock me?”

Harry laughs. “Maybe not _you_ , but certainly any ladies in attendance, along with the museum’s elderly trustees.”

“Try me.”

Harry takes a moment, enjoying Eggsy’s whole-hearted attention, before his lips curl in the subtlest hint of a smile. “For one thing, we use a great fucking deal of profanity.”

Hearing that word trip smugly from the mouth of genteel Dr. Hart makes Eggsy light-headed. Harry smirks, relishing Eggsy’s reaction. Eggsy has to shake his head and demand, “Say that again!” an incredulous smile on his lips.

Harry ignores his request. “And the stench—you’ve never smelled its like. A dozen men sharing one or two tents, with no showers to get properly clean. Sweat and filth, infection and insects; it’s hardly glamorous living. There are no gentlemen at a dig site.”

“Christ, Harry!”

“That’s why I’m at this hotel, actually. A brief stopover to re-civilize myself after six weeks in the jungle, before my flight to London tomorrow. Now I’ve had a proper bath and a proper drink, I’m nearly up to the standards of London society.”

“Oh—then you’re on a dig now? Of course you are,” Eggsy answers his own question. “What else would bring the great Dr. Hart to Mexico?”

“Aside from the sunstroke and syphilis?” Harry asks wryly.

Eggsy beams at him. “Go on then, let’s hear about your latest adventure. What wonder of the ancient world are you discovering this time?” He signals the waiter for two more martinis and casually removes his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair.

Harry’s gaze lingers on the breadth of Eggsy’s shoulders for a moment before he begins his description of the lost Mayan city of Dzibilchatún—its existence discovered by another archaeologist before the last war, but the site waiting until 1956 for Harry’s in-depth exploration. He describes the ruins they’ve already uncovered, more than a dozen temples, living quarters, and public gathering spaces, and the long, limestone roads that once connected the important sites of the city, newly cleared from a millennia of jungle growth. And the acres of likely mounds they’ve yet to survey and uncover.

In this setting, mere minutes from the dig site and far from the stuffy halls of the British Museum, Harry seems more alive than Eggsy’s ever seen him, his gestures broadening and eyes shining as he describes the wonders he’s uncovered and his hopes for more to come. His excitement calls to Eggsy, lifting his pulse, quickening his breaths. Eggsy leans across the table, proper posture long forgotten, as he accompanies Harry on his journey into the past.

Next Harry launches into a description of the city’s cenote, a vast, freshwater sinkhole in the middle of the Mayan city, plunging down more than 40 meters to a network of caves where some of the dig’s most impressive discoveries have been made. How it takes nearly half an hour to descend the full depth, and nearly an hour to return to the surface to prevent decompression sickness, and what it feels like to swim out over that vertical drop and stare down into the very darkness of hell itself.

“Wait,” Eggsy interrupts, “you’re not making those dives yourself, are you? That’s mad! Harry, what...that’s insanely dangerous!”

Harry’s smile is pure masculine satisfaction as he says, “Nonsense, Eggsy. The new Aqua-Lung model is surprisingly effective. Much better than the one I used on that shipwreck at Cape Race in ‘54. And I would never ask an employee to take on a risk I was unwilling to perform myself.”

If Harry weren’t bragging so blatantly, Eggsy would let Harry see how deeply impressed he is. Harry’s lectures were never about personal exploits—at least none that Harry took credit for. Eggsy had no idea what Harry got up to at his dig sites, aside from drawing maps and telling others where to dig. It’s marvelous to gain this kind of insight into the dangers Harry is willing to face for his passion.

Eggsy knocks back the last of his second glass of gin and starts rolling up his shirt sleeves, helping redirect some of Harry’s adventurous energy in Eggsy’s direction. By the time Eggsy’s got the cuffs how he wants them—identical to Harry’s own in a deliberate signal, Harry’s smirk has morphed into intent.

“Keep talking,” Eggsy finally says. “Tell me more about the Temple of Seven Dolls.”

Harry clears his throat. “I have a counter-proposition for you; come see it yourself when I return. If you’re still in Mérida in a few weeks, I’ll drive you to the site myself for a private tour.”

Fuck, if only he could. For all the treasures Eggsy’s stolen, he’s never been on a proper treasure hunt, and Harry’s descriptions have lit a fire he’d love to chase. He wants to see that cenote first-hand, maybe give the Aqua-Lung a try, bury his hands into the deep black silt of a sunken cave floor and see what mysteries he can pull from the depths. And the chance to join Harry in his true element, to see him up close and vibrant, is a temptation that’s hard to resist.

But come the morning, Eggsy will be long gone with Harry's priceless artifact, and this offer will evaporate like mist.

Eggsy opens his mouth to make his apologies, some bullshit about conflicting travel plans. Harry must read his refusal in his body language, because he immediately sweetens the pot.

“Or perhaps something more exotic. The museum is considering my proposal to explore the site of an ancient Buddhist shrine in Vaishali, India next year. Given how keen you are for archaeology, I could always find room for another pair of hands at the work site.”

Eggsy hasn’t been to India yet, and he couldn’t imagine a better offer coming from Harry. But it’s just as impossible as the other offer.

Remembering to stay in character, Eggsy feigns a shudder of horror and drawls, “You’re too kind. But I could never live in the wilderness for any length of time. No toilets, running water, hotel beds, or proper martinis? Completely preposterous.” He adds a winsome smile to soothe Harry’s frown of disappointment. “I’ll attend any lecture you give, anywhere in the world, but the field life of an archaeologist isn’t for me.”

The flattery gets Harry smiling again. “You’re getting your very own private lecture right now,” he points out.

Eggsy laughs, a bit breathless to realize Harry’s right—and it’s the greatest experience he never knew he wanted. It’s also the perfect opening to ramp up the flirtation. “So I am. It’s a bit lacking though,” he teases. “No maps or artifacts at hand. What is a professor without his visual aids?”

Harry’s expression shutters unexpectedly, a blank barrier to his thoughts that makes Eggsy nervous. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be out with your friends this evening? An archaeology lesson can’t be your first choice for a vacation.”

Eggsy lets his eyelids dip low. “Honestly, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Color begins to seep into Harry’s face, darkening his already tan complexion. “I only ask because it just so happens that I have some maps and artifacts here in town. Including the prize of this expedition to date; a stunning jade mask I pulled from the cenote, probably a millennium old, carved in the shape of a jaguar’s face. It’s a remarkable artifact, too valuable to store out in the field. Hence my trip back to London tomorrow.”

“I very much look forward to seeing it in your next lecture.”

Harry hesitates, and Eggsy bites his tongue to keep silent, waiting for Harry to make the biggest mistake of his life.

“It’s upstairs in my hotel room, in fact,” Harry finally says. “If you’d like to see it tonight....”

Eggsy smiles slow and wide, holding eye contact as he says with intent, “Harry, you don’t need an excuse to get me up to your hotel room.”

It hits Harry like an electric current, his eyes narrowing and fingers flexing around the stem of his martini glass for an instant. “In that case,” Harry purrs, confidence replacing his earlier uncertainty as though it never existed, “Would you like one more drink down here? Or shall we proceed with the rest of the evening’s plans?”

~

Harry switches on a lamp as they enter his hotel room, and Eggsy steps past him to quickly scan for a chest or lock-box. There’s precious little in the modest-sized room; a dresser and small mirror on one wall, the bed on the opposite wall, and a low bench in between. A suitcase lies by the bench; that must be his target.

The shutters are open to the humid evening outside, and the air is hot and thick with the scents of warm asphalt and damp earth, a reminder that the jungle is all around them. Eggsy lays his suit jacket across the bench and watches Harry close and bolt the door with precise movements. When Harry turns to face him, neither of them rush to speak, the weight of expectation heavy between them. Harry saunters across the room, casting a long, lean shadow on the red-tiled floor as he heads to the dresser. He slings a leather satchel off of his wide shoulders onto the roughened surface.

Too easily distracted by Harry’s body, Eggsy forces himself to break the silence. “You said you wanted to show me something.”

Harry turns toward him, eyes dark in the low light, smile predatory.

“Not like that, not yet,” Eggsy teases. “You said you pulled a treasure from the bottom of a sinkhole—I don’t want to miss that.”

“Of course,” Harry drawls, unhurried, even though Eggsy knows Harry’s focus is already on getting Eggsy into his bed. But Harry seems genuinely eager as he pulls a lacquered box from the satchel and sets it on the dresser.

“You had it with you in the bar?” Eggsy gasps. Several thoughts collide in Eggsy’s brain at once, causing a panic-induced headache at the disasters he’s just barely circumvented. That he could have ransacked an empty room earlier; that someone else could have nicked the mask out from under their noses in the bar; that he would have left it behind at their table had he pursued his original plan of getting Harry blackout drunk.

Harry shrugs. “The safest place for it is with me, always.” He opens the box reverentially, as though the hinges themselves were delicate. Eggsy drifts closer to stand at Harry’s elbow and looks down at a mound of yellow straw that Harry brushes aside to reveal a polished surface of dark green, shaped in smooth curves that resemble the face of a jaguar.

Harry lifts the treasure so Eggsy can see the eye holes, the mouth hole, and the way the light slithers across it like water.

Eggsy feels breathless, the beauty of the artifact striking him like none of his previous targets have before, likely for seeing this one held in Harry’s graceful hands. Eggsy feels a wistful twinge of regret to have the mask in front of him so soon. He should have shagged Harry first. Now it’s simply a matter of cold-cocking Harry, delivering Mr. Valentine his prize, and collecting his earnings.

His hand is already clenched in a reluctant fist when Harry waylays him with another story.

“When I found this, it was caked thick with clay and mud. I had no idea what I had in my hands until I’d gotten it to the surface and rubbed away the sediment. This mask would have been the property of a king or a prince, and would have been worn into battle when they warred with other tribes. You see this gouge here, and another just here,” Harry murmurs, tracing over them with long fingers. “Potentially made by a bladed weapon, most likely in battle. The scientists at the museum will attempt to identify the exact shape of the tool that made these marks.”

Eggsy sways toward him, caught up in the beloved cadence of Harry’s lectures.

“A Mayan digger on my team shared some folklore about masks like these. His ancestors believed that the wearer of such a mask would gain the strength of that beast. Definitely a boon going into battle. And the jaguar was revered as one of the most powerful beasts in Mayan lore.”

“If it was so important, what the hell was it doing at the bottom of a 40-meter well?”

“Ah, now that is a question worthy of an archaeologist.” Harry sets the mask back into its bed of straw and steps back, allowing Eggsy to lean closer to examine it. “We seek out mysteries to solve, trying to decipher their causes from the evidence left behind. Like this scar, for example; what could have caused a mark like this?”

Harry’s fingertips brush the hair at the nape of Eggsy’s neck, and Eggsy realizes with a sudden flush of heat that Harry is studying _him_ , tracing along an old knife scar Eggsy got when he was 10. Asking to know its origin.

And what can Eggsy say? Not that he got it from a thug of a landlord who used to squeeze a few extra quid out of Eggsy's mum by holding a switchblade to Eggsy's neck.

“Barber accident,” he lies, but the wobble in his voice betrays his racing pulse, triggered by Harry’s proximity, Harry’s maddening touch, and the delirious thrill of having Harry’s brilliant mind focused on him.

“In some cultures, a barber who marred a prince’s skin would be put to death,” Harry says.

Eggsy’s cheeks heat. He feels flustered, wrong-footed in a way he can’t pin down. “Good thing I’m not a prince,” Eggsy says, and turns to look up at Harry.

“Even still, the punishment for hurting you like that must have been severe.”

And really, that’s too much. Eggsy has no choice but to slide a hand around Harry’s neck, reel him in until their lips press hard against one another and Harry can’t say another word.

Harry makes a pleased sound in his throat and stoops lower—curse him for being so tall—one arm around Eggsy’s waist to drag their chests together. Eggsy’s bent backward, Harry’s arms supporting him, and a surprised laugh bubbles up from Eggsy’s chest.

Harry smiles and plucks at Eggsy’s shirt buttons, his cheek rubbing against Eggsy’s jaw as Harry ducks his head to kiss each patch of skin as he uncovers it. Eggsy closes his eyes for a moment and savors the sweet and spicy scent of Harry’s cologne and the feel of his mouth on his skin.

“And this one,” Harry rumbles against his throat, his callused fingers paused over Eggsy’s left collarbone.

Shit.

He can hardly confess to breaking his collarbone fleeing the Cairo Museum with a stolen statue of Khufu.

“Punting mishap,” Eggsy gasps.

Harry’s lips curve against his skin, and he presses a kiss under Eggsy’s ear before continuing his slow exploration.

This could be as dangerous as it is intoxicating, Eggsy realizes. He threads his fingers through Harry’s soft curls and tugs him up so Eggsy can avoid his prying eyes.

Harry takes advantage, pressing in for another kiss, this one slower, gentler. His tongue traces the seam of Eggsy’s lips, and Eggsy opens with a sigh, letting Harry’s tongue sweep inside to rub against his own.

Harry’s hips buck, and Eggsy grabs Harry’s shirt for balance, inadvertently tearing a few buttons. Harry makes a sound of approval, and Eggsy greedily sets to unbuttoning the rest of Harry’s shirt, his fingers made clumsy by luxurious kisses.

When he has Harry’s shirt untucked and open, Eggsy shoves it off Harry’s shoulders and pushes Harry back so he can get a look at him. Surprise zips pleasantly through his stomach at the discovery of lean muscle, Harry fitter than Eggsy’d ever suspected under all those fine suits. Eggsy sets about his own exploration, indulging in the slide of hot skin, smoothing over Harry’s nipples and firm pectorals.

Eggsy’s touch stutters over a rough patch of skin on the cusp of Harry’s right shoulder. It feels like scar tissue—a surprisingly large area.

“What’s this from?” Eggsy asks, leaning closer to inspect it.

Harry stiffens for a moment, his eyes skidding down to the scar tissue, red as though fairly new. “An accident at the site. A small rubble collapse. Nothing to worry about.”

Eggsy shudders at the sound of that—the implication of a cave-in or something worse—and impulsively leans in to kiss it. He shortly comes across another scar, this one on the meat of Harry’s right upper arm. It’s smooth like an old burn. “Tell me about this one?”

Harry takes a deep breath, his fingers flexing on Eggsy’s hips. “Several years ago. I was careless with a torch.”

“How could a torch burn you—”

His voice goes sharp, exasperated. “A literal torch, Eggsy. A flaming rag soaked in tar, held aloft.”

“Oh.” Eggsy tilts a quizzical look at Harry. “Your job is a lot more dangerous than I’d expected.”

Harry laughs tightly. “Not at all. Only the occasional incident or injury when I’m less than careful.”

Either Harry is lying, or he’s _rarely_ careful, Eggsy muses, as he uncovers more and more marks on Harry’s skin. Perhaps it’s the lack of protective outerwear—with how tanned his chest and arms are, it seems Harry is frequently under-dressed at his dig sites.

Harry soon loses patience with his questions and distracts Eggsy with a mouth on his throat, sucking a hot bruise to the surface. Eggsy gasps and rocks against Harry, letting Harry toss his shirt aside and run possessive hands down Eggsy’s backside.

Unfortunately, Harry isn’t as distracted himself, and his touch soon lingers over another mark, his eyes catching Eggsy’s for an explanation. And fuck if Eggsy can think of an acceptably posh reason for the curved scar of a stove burner on his flank, from when his mum’s boyfriend tried to teach him to mind his elders. “Cricket incident,” he blurts, and is rewarded by a disbelieving chuckle from Harry.

And that’s fine, Eggsy can make it a game. For every scar Harry tsks over, Eggsy makes up another preposterous story: chased by the queen’s corgis; juggled knives on a dare; locked himself in the boot of his car mid-coitus. Whatever Harry chooses to believe, it isn’t that Eggsy’s a mercenary from the shite part of London come to rob him blind. In fact, Harry seems to take it as some kind of flirting.

And Eggsy’s happy to acquire more marks at Harry’s hands; ones that won’t last for long, but that he’ll wear with pride for a week or more. Harry’s fingers dug into his arse as he ruts his cock against Eggsy’s stomach; a stinging bite around a nipple; a bruise on his calf from stumbling past the low bench as Harry leads Eggsy blindly toward the bed. Harry is deliciously rough, and Eggsy sucks on Harry’s lip and winds a leg around him to trip him, even while clinging to Harry’s broad shoulders for a lifeline.

When they reach the bed, Harry turns away and drags the coverlet off, casting it to the floor before sending their discarded shirts and Eggsy’s shoes after it. Eggsy reaches out to grab a greedy handful of Harry’s firm arse but his hand freezes in mid-air as he takes in the small, circular scar just above Harry’s hip. “Harry—is that...?”

 _A bullet wound_ , he doesn’t say, because that’s absolutely bonkers. Who would ever shoot at Harry? He doesn’t have that kind of life—not like the one Eggsy’s led, with thugs and marks and enemies. Although—his brain spins, processing the myriad of other marks on Harry’s upper body—similar, in a way, to Eggsy’s own. All accidents, incongruous with bullet wounds...unless taken in the context of—

Harry whirls around, bent low to catch Eggsy’s thighs, and hoists him up in his arms and dumps him onto the bed so abruptly that Eggsy loses his breath and his train of thought, already reaching for Harry as he bounces against the soft mattress. Harry licks down Eggsy’s sweat-slicked stomach, his expert hands sliding Eggsy’s belt open, and Eggsy fists Harry’s unruly curls and groans devoutly, “Fuck, Harry.”

“I intend to,” Harry says, all smug promise as he casts Eggsy’s belt to the floor.

~

He didn’t mean to fall asleep.

The lamp is still on, but the room is brightening with the coming dawn as Eggsy dresses in last night’s wrinkled suit. He has to dig through the folds of the coverlet to find his shoes, and his pants must be somewhere under the sheets—he’ll do without, because there’s no time to waste. Eggsy’s flight to New York leaves in two hours, and Harry’s had a full night’s sleep to recover from that impressively athletic round of sex. He could awaken at any moment and catch Eggsy in the act.

Eggsy curses his own satiated lassitude as he seals the jade mask in its box, then slips the box into Harry’s leather satchel. Eggsy’s at the bedroom door, nearly away scot-free, when Harry rolls onto his back and murmurs Eggsy’s name.

A spontaneous urge has Eggsy returning to the bed to run a hand over Harry’s sleek chest. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers fondly.

Harry’s head lolls against the pillow, and he says something that might have been ‘darling,’ if he weren’t already drifting off again.

Eggsy watches his features relax back into slumber, memorizing Harry’s face, the warmth of his skin, and the smell of both of them in the sheets.

And then he’s out the door.

He’s crossing the hotel lobby, a memory in his eyes and a lovely ache between his legs, when he hears hurried steps above him. He looks up just as Harry Hart storms down the stairs, his hair sex-wild and shirt hanging open as he shouts, “Eggsy! Eggsy!”

Their eyes meet, and Eggsy sees the moment Harry recognizes the satchel hanging from his shoulder.

Harry’s relief changes to fury. “Thief! Stop him!”

Eggsy bolts into the empty palazzo, the sunrise painting the stucco walls around him with a pink blush. His unscuffed leather soles skid on dusty stone as he veers left and makes for the shopping district at full speed. His heels slap the pavers, the sound a beacon for any hotel security or police, but with a little luck he’ll find some foot traffic to blend into.

He emerges from a side street into an open-air market he’d passed last night. This morning, it’s exactly what he needs. Eggsy slips off his suit jacket and tie as he dodges between merchants setting up their stalls, and stashes the garments beneath a mound of colorful weavings. With a deep breath, Eggsy consciously slows his pace to match the men and women moving through the square. He smiles and nods his head politely to people at random; a trick that’s served him well in the finer neighborhoods of London.

It works for all of fifteen seconds. And then a hand grabs his shoulder in a brutal grip, and Eggsy whirls, knees bending and fist swinging low.

Just before his fist connects with the man’s gut, he recognizes Harry—barely dressed, his face red and eyes flashing. And then Eggsy’s fist hits hard, Harry’s grip loosens, and Eggsy dives under a table and into another aisle, moving as quickly as the people in his way will permit.

“Fucking careless,” he snarls under his breath, and he isn’t sure whether he means himself or Harry. But there’s no time to pin the thought down, so he ducks his head and runs.

He makes it to a narrow alleyway between a pair of buildings, one pale stucco, the other red clay, with clothes lines strung between the second and third floors. Eggsy jumps onto a trash bin, pulls a dark shirt off the lowest line, and drapes it across his shoulders to conceal his white linen shirt. The alley itself dead ends around a short corner, and Eggsy doubles back...just in time to see Harry passing the mouth of the alley.

Eggsy jerks to a halt, the hope that Harry won’t see him extinguished in the same instant as Harry glances his way. In the split second it takes Harry to realize he’s found him, Eggsy calculates his options. He could charge Harry, knock him down in a rush. If he hits Harry hard enough, he’ll stay down, giving Eggsy the chance to slip clear.... But Eggsy already feels guilty for that thoughtless punch; he doesn’t want to physically hurt Harry any more if he can avoid it.

Harry snarls and pivots into the alley, and Eggsy chooses the less-violent option of going high. He leaps back onto the trash bin and starts climbing a narrow drainpipe, hand over hand with his knees banging against the sharp stucco. He weaves his way through the clothes lines, makes his way to the wrought iron rails of the third floor balcony, and vaults up to catch his fingers on the roof’s edge.

Scrambling quickly over the ledge, he glances back down and sees no sign of Harry. He wonders for a moment whether Harry’s gone to fetch the police. And then the access door to the roof slams open, and Eggsy straightens to his feet in time to see Harry bursting out onto the cluttered roof.

“Fuck me,” Eggsy mutters, even as Harry pants out, “Eggsy!” and lunges for him. Eggsy steps backward off the ledge and lets himself drop a few meters, his palms slapping and clutching the railing he’d just used, and from there he kicks through the window to the third floor apartment, broken glass shattering across the floor. Eggsy hears a woman scream but doesn’t stop for explanations as he tears through the bedroom and kitchen until he’s free of the apartment.

It’s just his luck that Harry is on the same trajectory. Their shoulders slam together as Eggsy bursts into the central stairwell. Harry makes a grab for him, catching his shirts with one hand and swinging at Eggsy’s face with the other. Eggsy jumps and falls backward, losing the borrowed overshirt as he flips over the rail to land half a flight down on the staircase. He makes for the street outside, not looking back as he hears Harry’s cursing and pounding feet behind him.

Back on the street, Eggsy grabs the nearest objects to hand and throws them in Harry’s path—a stack of baskets, a clapboard, an awning he pulls down. He can’t chance looking behind to see if this strategy is working or if Harry is gaining on him. He can hear Harry’s leather soles as loud as his own, so he doubts Harry’s going to tire and give up anytime soon. If Harry hadn’t fucked him for half the bloody night, Eggsy would be amazed at Harry’s stamina now.

Eggsy’s concentration slips for a crucial moment at the memory of Harry pressing him down, kissing him—

And he runs up against the side of a moving car, his palms bouncing off as it speeds by in a rush of bright color and sound, and Eggsy catches his balance just before he would have fallen into the lane of oncoming traffic.

A split second later, a freight train hits him from behind, tackling him with two strong arms and dragging him to the asphalt. Eggsy flails and jerks, but Harry’s grip is secure as he pins Eggsy to the ground with some kind of wrestling move. A car honks loudly as it bears down on them, and Harry and Eggsy roll in unison toward the curb as it veers aside, just missing them. Harry kicks at Eggsy’s legs when he tries to brace against the curb, so Eggsy squirms, twisting under Harry to wedge a knee against Harry’s hip. He shoves off just as Harry swings, and Harry’s right hook rattles Eggsy’s jaw before Harry’s pushed back, giving Eggsy a narrow chance to scramble away.

He sets off against the flow of traffic and takes the first opportunity to dash between two vehicles and across the busy lane. Harry’s right behind him, an inexorable pursuer, and Eggsy thinks, with a desperation nearing panic, that Harry Hart is the wrong fucker to have stolen from.

A foot chase is no good; Harry’s got a longer stride. Eggsy scans the street quickly and spots a restaurant awning sticking out from a modern building, the rise of higher floors set back from the street. He dodges through the thin stream of pedestrians, assessing what looks like a rooftop terrace above the first-floor restaurant, with a few umbrellas and some green shrubs lining the sides. Just as he passes the front door of the restaurant, Eggsy veers into the street, leaps onto the hood of an oncoming car, staggers to its roof, and throws himself toward the balustrade.

His knee hits the concrete lip of the roof with a radiating shock, and Eggsy grits his teeth as he clambers over the railing and falls onto the cool tile floor of the terrace. He spares a glance through the rungs, and his jaw drops. The car he’d climbed has stopped, and Harry is leaping from its hood to that of a slightly higher truck, meters away from where Eggsy’s sprawled.

“Oh, you're fucking kidding me!” Eggsy pushes himself to his feet and makes for the glass doors into the building proper. They’re double-paned and chained shut on the inside—there’s no getting through that in a hurry. At least his knee isn’t locking up on him. He looks up again—no obvious handholds for the first three meters. _Come on, think_! He could drop into that side alley as Harry lands on the terrace, maybe duck into the restaurant—

He’s lurching toward the alley when a pistol shot rings out, and a puff of dust erupts from the cement wall where the bullet entered, just in front of him.

Eggsy freezes and slowly pivots to face Harry. Harry’s braced against the railing, sweat on his brow and bared chest...and a pistol in his steady hand.

“A gun?” Eggsy protests. “Now that’s just cheating, mate. Not fair bringing a gun to a foot race.”

Harry doesn’t so much as twitch. “Don’t move,” he snaps.

“Wasn’t planning to,” Eggsy says—an obvious lie, but better to be cocky than show his true alarm. Because Eggsy doesn’t know what to expect of Harry Hart anymore. Last week, Harry was a charming, well-heeled lecturer at the museum, and last night a passionate archaeologist and lover. But this morning, he’s a gun-wielding adventurer straight out of the serials Eggsy’s mum watches. Eggsy can’t deny that this version of Harry hits buttons he didn’t know he had, even holding a gun pointed squarely at Eggsy’s chest.

“Who are you working for?” Harry growls.

If he can get Harry talking, maybe Eggsy can stall long enough to find an opportunity to escape. He raises his chin in defiance. “What’s it to you?”

“There are only a handful of collectors of stolen antiquities who can afford to hire someone of your calibre. I’d like to know who to file charges against.”

It’s astonishing how well Harry has him pegged—but Eggsy forces a laugh. “Maybe I was after it for myself.”

“Then I suppose that makes you a common thief.”

That facile dig at his competence sets Eggsy off like flash paper. “I’ve been called common all my life by posh blokes like you, and one thing I know is, ain’t nothing common about me,” he snarls.

Harry looks taken aback by his vehemence. “No, I suppose not,” he admits. A moment later, he regains his equilibrium and says, “Set down the satchel and step aside.”

“Worried you’ll damage your precious artifact when you shoot me?” Eggsy sneers.

“No, simply trying to reclaim my stolen property. Put down the bag, and you’re free to go.”

What a ludicrous proposition. Harry must know that Eggsy won’t stop if he’s set free. Five hours from now, he’ll be lifting it at the Mérida airport, or making his way to London for an even easier go. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s stolen something from the British Museum. There’s a curator there with a soft spot for Eggsy, and at least two guards he can bribe.

Eggsy lifts his chin. “I don’t think so, mate.”

Harry blinks in disbelief. “Put down the bag, or I’ll shoot,” he repeats, as though Eggsy’s got rocks for brains.

“You’re just gonna shoot me anyway.” Eggsy deliberately slides the satchel in front of his body as a shield.

Harry’s stance firms. He adjusts his aim a couple inches north, to what certainly looks like a clean headshot from Eggsy’s angle.

 _Good show, Harry_ , Eggsy thinks, followed by the chilling realization that he could die over some American geezer’s bit of treasure and never see his family again. His mum and sister are set up well enough—he’s seen to that already—but his chest aches at the thought of never seeing Daisy grow up.

Well. No sense blubbering about it. The least he can do is face death with his head high.

Eggsy sets his jaw and stares Harry in the eye, waiting for the kill shot.

For a long, tense moment, Harry waits, his arm unwavering, aim steady. But with each passing second, Harry’s expression becomes more pinched and lined. Sweat drips down Eggsy’s back, crawling across his skin. He doesn’t know what the fuck Harry’s waiting for, but the waiting itself feels like torture.

And then Harry says, “Shit,” and relaxes his grip so the barrel points skyward.

Eggsy stares.

“Shit,” Harry swears again, more vehemently.

“Harry?” Eggsy asks carefully.

“Go. Get out of my sight,” Harry says, wearing a look of disappointed resignation before he turns his back on Eggsy and rests his hands on the railing.

It takes Eggsy a full three seconds to process the reprieve Harry’s granting him. And after he shakes off the absurd urge to comfort Harry, Eggsy’s swiftly over the balustrade to the alley four meters below. He tucks and rolls, ignores the protest of his knee, and sprints into the traffic of a city just waking up.

~

He runs for nearly an hour, ducking through crowds, hopping on a bus for several blocks, and crossing a few rooftops, until he’s halfway across town and secure in the knowledge that Harry isn’t pursuing him. But he can’t outrun the knot in his gut at the memory of Harry’s face just before he let Eggsy escape with a priceless treasure. Harry had him at his mercy yet let him go. Eggsy can’t even fathom the magnitude of that...gift? Favor?

Eggsy stops at a fountain in a small square and swallows a few gulps of cloudy water to parch his thirst. His shirt’s streaked with dirt and sweat, but it isn’t worth getting a change of clothes; he doesn’t give a shit what Valentine thinks of him, as long as he gets paid. The only person whose opinion matters the slightest to Eggsy right now is Harry, and he’s ruined that, hasn’t he?

Eggsy’s surprised to realize that’s an actual question. Harry’s opinion needn’t be carved in stone; Eggsy’s could probably undo the harm he’s done by returning the mask. It’s not like he needs Valentine’s money; he’s got a good house in a decent part of town, plus a bit of money saved from his previous jobs. He could easily lose one prize without ending up back in the gutter.

But why is he even considering giving the mask back? Is Harry’s good opinion of him really so important?

~

He finds Harry’s hotel room door hanging open, the door ripped off the top hinges as though recently victim to a violent temper. Eggsy feels another pang of guilt and quietly lets himself into the room.

He spots Harry standing shirtless at the dresser, washing his face and neck over a bowl of water. Eggsy has a clear view of Harry’s back as he stands behind him, and he uses the moment to reassess Harry’s map of scars and bruises in the clear light of day, recontextualized with the knowledge of exactly what Harry can do with his body. Combined, they tell a very different story from the one Harry sold him last night.

After a minute, Harry looks up and spies Eggsy in the mirror. He whirls around instantly, gun drawn from his waistband...but he aims it at the floor instead of at Eggsy.

Eggsy takes a deep breath and tries not to react to the weapon. Likewise, Harry doesn’t seem to react to the leather satchel dangling from Eggsy’s hand. Once again, they’re locked in a standoff with no easy out. This time, Eggsy cracks first.

“How’d you get that bullet scar on your back?”

Harry cocks his head, perplexed. He waits a long moment before answering briskly, “I got it stopping an excavation saboteur in Yemen.”

Eggsy suspected as much. “And that burn on your arm?”

“I was careless with a torch,” Harry says, parroting his excuse from last night. Then he clears his throat and clarifies, “...which was wielded by grave robbers looting my dig in Jericho.”

“And I reckon the rest of your scars have got similar stories. You’re not just some gentleman-academic type, are you?”

Harry smirks. “As I told you, there are no gentlemen at a dig site.” He glances at the gun in his hand and then sets it down on the dresser. “And what are you, Eggsy?”

Eggsy honestly wishes he knew. “An hour ago, I was a thief, hired by a man named Valentine to steal an artifact from you.”

“And now?”

Eggsy pulls the wooden box out of the satchel and tosses it to Harry. “What do you think?” Eggsy asks, as Harry digs into the box and pulls out the jade mask. The look of naked relief on Harry’s face is gratifying enough to make Eggsy feel weightless.

Satisfied, Harry places the mask and box carefully on the dresser and then asks, “Why did you bring it back?”

“I ain’t sure. Maybe I just wanted to see that look on your face. Maybe I didn’t want you thinking I was....” Eggsy trails off, frustrated that he can’t find the words to say what he means—that he doesn’t want Harry thinking everything about last night was a lie.

“A common thief?” Harry guesses.

“You know I ain’t that by now,” Eggsy says sharply.

“No. Definitely not,” Harry says, with an apology in his voice that sounds almost fond.

Hearing him admit it is a rush all its own. Eggsy’s never felt so self-conscious before. Desperate for something to say, he asks the other question that’s been bothering him. “You ever killed anyone with a gun before?”

Harry eyes him suspiciously. “Have you?”

“Not with a gun,” Eggsy hedges.

Harry seems to absorb that information and nods thoughtfully. “Yes, I’ve killed with a gun before. And with any other weapon I had at hand. To protect myself, my diggers, and my discoveries.”

“Christ,” Eggsy murmurs. There’s a lot there to unpack. But the most important takeaway is that it wasn’t cowardice or morals that kept Harry from pulling the trigger on him. “So why didn’t you kill me?”

Harry looks just as bewildered and frustrated as Eggsy feels. Eventually Harry snarls, “It seemed a fucking waste. You’re obviously brilliant, and keen on ancient history and archaeology—unless that was part of your act—” Eggsy shakes his head firmly, and Harry looks reassured even as he continues, “—and all I could think was that you would be the greatest find of my career. If you weren’t hell bent on stealing from me.”

It's like being hit with brass knuckles, discovering that Harry had thought so highly of him, even in the face of his betrayal.

“Rehabilitation was out of the question, but I thought I might like to see you again someday, even if that meant you were stealing from another one of my sites.”

“It’s not,” Eggsy protests, the idea suddenly catching root. Eggsy’s never considered himself truly irredeemable—it’s just that the money was so easy, and the respect from his clients felt even better. But to have Harry’s respect...maybe that’s worth trying a straight-and-narrow sort of life for a while.

“Not out of the question?” Harry looks dubious—and hell, so is Eggsy.

But Eggsy’s here, standing in Harry’s hotel room, returning a prize he’d gotten clean away with and about to screw over a powerful client. At minimum, Valentine will demand his money back, and he’ll surely trash Eggsy’s name in the world of black market antiquities. Plus, he could always send someone to kill Eggsy on principle. But that’s a hazard of all of Eggsy’s jobs, even the successful ones.

It seems to be a regular hazard of Harry’s job, too. Eggsy has a suspicion they could do a good job watching each other’s backs.

Decision made, Eggsy finds himself relaxing for the first time in hours. “You know, I spent the last five years listening to your stories, thinking I knew what an archaeologist’s life was like. Turns out you’ve been holding out on me.”

Harry raises an elegant eyebrow—the big show off. He’s lucky Eggsy is so partial to him.

“Last night, you mentioned a dig in India. I bet no one’s wearing stuffy wool suits there. And if your job’s anything like the past 24 hours, I think you’ll need all the help you can get.”

“You’re assuming that offer is still on the table,” Harry sniffs, but Eggsy can see his defenses thawing.

Eggsy grins. “You said it yourself—someone of my ‘calibre’ is worth the money.”

Harry’s mouth quirks in a ruthlessly suppressed smile. “I don’t recall mentioning a salary.”

“It’s gonna be like that, is it?” Eggsy asks, and takes a step forward.

Harry takes a matching step. “I couldn’t possibly hire you without a professional recommendation.”

“Sod off with your fucking recommendation. Write me one yourself.” The distance between them closes smoothly as they drift together.

“Not every day is as exciting as this one,” Harry warns. “You’ll doubtless get bored and steal from me again.”

Eggsy lifts his chin, bare inches away from Harry now. “Then you’ll have to find a way to keep it interesting for me, yeah?”

Harry catches Eggsy round the back of the neck, his callused hand rough as he draws Eggsy close. “I think I may do just that,” he says, and lowers his mouth to Eggsy’s for a kiss that makes Eggsy’s knees feel weak.

Eggsy grabs Harry’s shoulders, thick muscles and scarred skin hot under his palms. Fuck, he’ll live on bread and water for the chance to have this with Harry. Harry’s teeth tug at Eggsy’s lower lip, and Eggsy tilts his head sideways for a better angle, slotting their hips together in a sinuous roll.

Just then, some complete twat decides to knock on the door. They jump apart guiltily, taking quick steps back from each other. Eggsy surreptitiously wipes at his lips before checking to see who their interrupting visitor is.

A well-coiffed gentleman in a lightweight suit enters, introducing himself apologetically as the hotel manager and making solicitous noises about the broken door. He scrapes and simpers, promising them an immediate repair, but Eggsy can see the sneer he’s barely holding back—and no wonder; he doubtless got an eyeful from the hall.

Eggsy would quite like to punch him.

And then the man’s gaze lands on the jade mask, still resting on its box atop Harry’s dresser, and the hairs on Eggsy’s arms stand to attention. Eggsy sees the manager’s eyes go wide with greed before he conceals it with another smile and backs out of the room with a promise to send men up for the repairs right away.

Once he’s gone, Harry calmly reaches for his pistol.

“‘Not every day’s as exciting as this one.’ Harry Hart, you’re a _fucking liar_ ,” Eggsy says with glee.

Harry clears his throat but doesn’t deny it.

“Fuck. Alright. We’d better get you to the airport right quick. ‘Cause if that bloke’s the real manager, I’ll eat my hat.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Harry says, already turning to package up his mask.

Eggsy snatches up Harry’s suitcase and unfastens it. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about you owing me a salary.”

“We can discuss it on the flight?” Harry offers.

“You’re damn right we will,” Eggsy says.

They share a wholly uncivilized grin and resume packing in a rush.

Eggsy thinks he’ll rather enjoy being an archaeologist after all.

 

 

_________________

 

 

 

CODA

 

Several months later, Professor Harry Hart stands with his back to a full lecture hall in the bowels of the British Museum, as he illustrates the layout of the partially excavated Temple of the Seven Dolls on the chalkboard.

"Now, it has been observed that on the vernal equinox, should one stand here—" and Harry draws an X on his diagram "—one will see the rising sun framed within the temple's doorways. However, there are no architectural features marking this observation spot with particular importance, and the reason we even know about this rather spectacular view has more to do with a late night, a bottle of gin, and an ill-advised bet with my assistant than it does with any design focal point. As such we must be careful not to project our own inferences upon the site, such as postulating that the temple was used by a sun-worshiping death cult, without supporting evidence from the site itself."

Harry turns around, wipes his hands on the cloth he keeps behind his lectern specifically for chalk dust, and continues to address his audience. He scans the crowd, looking for a particular face in the auditorium. Harry had arrived alone at the Museum several hours earlier to review the display of certain artifacts from Mérida which had been catalogued while he and Eggsy were opening the excavation in India. But over breakfast, Eggsy had said he would be attending tonight, and so Harry is determined to find his partner.

"The temple is connected to the rest of the site by a sacbe—" and here Harry catches Eggsy's eye, second row from the front, dead center. How did he miss him? "—or, 'white road', which was a stone-and-rubble fill overlaid with limestone."

Eggsy keeps eye contact, and it's flattering and a little flustering to see how enraptured he is hearing Harry talk—especially about the site that started their acquaintance in the first place.

"We have seen evidence of sacbeob—" and Harry stutters through the word, mangling the pronunciation horribly, because Eggsy—

Eggsy—

Eggsy has just blinked at Harry, slow and deliberate and without warning for how greatly he's about to disturb Harry's composure. Across his eyelids, he's written the words FUCK and ME.

"We have seen evidence across multiple excavations in the region—" and then Eggsy slow-blinks again, since apparently he isn't content to let Harry get a full sentence out.

Harry's face grows warm. Even though the rest of the audience is behind Eggsy and cannot see this blatant provocation, they can still see Harry's face, and the naked arousal he's wearing. Harry knows that Eggsy sees it, because Eggsy looks completely unrepentant as he shifts in his seat to stretch provocatively.

Well. Two can play at that game.

Harry touches the knot of his tie and then slowly slides his fingers along the silken length. Eggsy straightens, eyes narrowing as he recognizes exactly which tie Harry is wearing. Harry presses on with the lecture, occasionally flicking the end of the tie to hold Eggsy's attention. Judging by Eggsy's keen focus and the way he fidgets with his jacket cuffs, Eggsy remembers how that tie feels wrapped around his wrists, holding him still for Harry's pleasure.

"—of this particular type of roadway. Though the best-preserved examples have been found at what appear to be temples or other sites of religious importance, we can infer that these roads were walked by traders as well as pilgrims."

Harry has the lecture hall booked for another forty-eight minutes; plenty of time to make Eggsy squirm, too.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Notes (samanthahirr):** This fic was ridiculously fun to write! I’m thrilled to be participating in my sixth round of pod-together. reena_jenkins is the sweetest partner I’ve ever worked with, and somehow also a _devious siren_. Not only did she volunteer to do this pinch hit recording at the last minute; she also wrote a brilliant coda scene for the story...and then somehow convinced me to record it! She’s made me a podficcer, which is something I thought I would never be brave enough to do.
> 
> I hope you’ve enjoyed this Kingsman work. Beta by [cinaea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinaea) and Brit-pick by [Vae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae). The music is “Con Mi Sombra” by S-Tone Inc. Comments are love. Come find me on [Tumblr](samanthahirr.tumblr.com/)!
> 
>  **Reader's Notes (reena_jenkins):** Hi! I hope you enjoyed the podfic - it was very exciting to meet samanthahirr, considering I lurked my way through pretty much her entire back catalogue of AI8, Bandom, and Teen Wolf fic.....and never actually said hello.
> 
> The timing on this project was perfect - klb asked if I'd pinch-hit an Indiana Jones AU less than 24 hours after I'd just completed a full Indiana Jones franchise marathon, so I was in _the zone_ for this story.
> 
> And, well, Eggsy is absolutely That Girl. You know who I'm talking about. And we couldn't get that image out of our heads, which is how the coda happened - and now samanthahirr is a podficcer and I'M NOT SORRY. "Coercion" is such a strong word for the situation - I prefer to think that I "persuaded", or even "enticed", samathahirr over to the podficcing side of things. We made a very good team on this project, and it shows in the podfic.
> 
> Thanks for listening!


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